


what we do when the power’s out

by kiiouex



Series: Rovinsky Week 2018 [4]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Consensual Somnophilia, I Think You Get My Gist, K's Sleep Drugs, M/M, Paralysis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 16:21:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14336355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiiouex/pseuds/kiiouex
Summary: A tiny red pill appears between Kavinsky’s fingers, small enough that Ronan can swallow it no matter how dry his throat’s getting. “Made this for you special,” he says softly, “In case you’ve been having trouble sleeping.”





	what we do when the power’s out

**Author's Note:**

> I guess this could count as Secret Relationship, though really my intention was 100% Somnophilia Kink Fill, by me, for me. Couldn’t find a fancy paraphilia name for lovin’ on people who can’t move but this is for that too
> 
> thanks to [tk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/telekinesiskid) for beta'ing even though she can't read. 
> 
> As a trigger warning this fic has consensual somnophilia + drugged sex so please avoid if you’re uncomfortable with people having sex with unconscious/immobile people.

He’d swear to God that he didn’t go looking for trouble, not on purpose. Halfway back to Monmouth, driving down some uninspired suburban street, Ronan didn’t even know there was a party until he was driving past it. Some absolutely inconsequential residential house was besieged by the kinds of car that His Kind Of People like, coloured lights flickering through the windows, and Ronan would swear to God, swear to Gansey, he hadn’t _meant_ to find K’s crowd that night.

He found them, though, and how could he not go inside?

It’s been a bad week, like every week, and what Ronan wants when he stops his car is to get something to take the edge off. He’s all angles in need of some smoothing; hard to relax when he keeps pricking himself on his own corners. The BMW joins the island of cars that is well off the correct property, half-blocking a neighbour’s driveway, still doing better than whoever parked on top of the letterbox. Overhead, it’s dark enough that decent people should be heading home, but Ronan thinks of Monmouth and how little air there is in his room when the door is shut, and he squeezes through toy cars and over-decorated little racers to the developing noise complaint.

It’s not a bad place. The inside of the house looks like it might even have a mature adult in residence, like it might have been neat and tidy before the maelstrom moved in. Rain starts to streak the glass while Ronan moves from kitchen to upstairs to lounge. He knows about half the people crushing up against him in the hallways, if ‘knowing’ means not talking to them at all the other parties.

K’s crowd is around, but the man himself isn’t, and Ronan’s mood worsens the longer he spends looking. He’s not even meant to be here tonight, he’s meant to be at home, suffocating. Not having fun at a party isn’t better. _Looking_ for Kavinsky is worse. He’s meant to just trip over him when he’s in the mood. Usually K is good at being everywhere; this party is a let-down.

At some point a cup is placed into Ronan’s hand, which he drains more than a few times, and good sense tells him that he is not in the right mind for this, to be walking around a party with no friends, looking for Kavinsky, black storm in his heart. But good sense will send him home, and he just can’t bear the thought, so instead he keeps circling and tries another door at the back of the house.

It leads to the garage, about the only place on the property that doesn’t hold a car, door whistling and shaking with the pull of the wind outside. Kavinsky is sprawled on a sagging old couch pressed against one wall, no shades, a neon tee that sears the eye. He’s sombre tonight, which isn’t any easier to deal with than manic, and it’s impossible to tell if he’s happy to see Ronan as he lets his head loll to one shoulder, eyes level with Ronan’s and bleak. His voice sounds dead when he says, “Lynch.”

“K,” Ronan says, much less sure that this is a good idea, but everything in him is grinding, scraping, carving itself up and he doesn’t want to lie on his bed alone with his pulse. He shuts the door behind him, just him and Kavinsky, the noise from the house beyond muffled like it’s begging for attention that neither of them are going to give it.

Kavinsky sighs when it’s clear Ronan’s staying, gets to his feet, and there’s something up with him other than one of his usual spells wearing off. There’s a bite on his neck, Ronan sees with electric thrill, there’s bruising on his arms, there’s blood on his knuckles only just starting to scab up. Someone has taken a _proper_ run at Kavinsky. God knows who had the balls for that, and Ronan only wishes it had been him, though he reckons K might have paid back worse in return.

Kavinsky lets him look, and usually he’s chattier, and usually he hasn’t been chewed to hell, before Ronan’s gotten to him. He spreads his hands, like Ronan should know all that he is by now, and asks bluntly, “What are you looking for?”

It’s too charged. Ronan feels, very acutely, that this is not where he should be. This is not the kind of conversation he should be having, this is not a Kavinsky he should engage with. The gleam in K’s eyes is worse than predatory, and Ronan can’t take his eyes off that fresh, curved scar down Kavinsky’s collarbone.

He’s after a fight, some hurt, something to take his mind off all the things he can’t change. But words are so dangerously prone to miscommunication, and he doesn’t know how much he’s in the mood to reveal, of the way his body wants to bend to Kavinsky’s gravity, of how badly he aches for a surrender, simple id, see the party, attend the party, see Kavinsky, submit.

What he says is, “Something to help me relax.”

“Well I’ve got that.” Kavinsky says, and if there’s any black honey creeping into his words, Ronan tries not to hear it. He gestures to the sofa, a graceless movement of his skeletal limbs; Ronan follows the direction and sits, not caring about the lumps and the stains on the ancient upholstery. K’s fingers slot under his chin, tip his head up, and the bulb behind K’s head halos him. Makes his eyes hard to see, though his teeth are still shining and they’re not at all gentle. He heard what Ronan was really asking for.

A tiny red pill appears between Kavinsky’s fingers, small enough that Ronan can swallow it no matter how dry his throat’s getting. “Made this for you special,” he says softly, “In case you’ve been having trouble sleeping.”

Always. Constantly. The dark in Ronan’s eyes is from more than his bad temper, and he tracks the pill as Kavinsky rolls it between his fingers. “Too much in my head,” he says, and he didn’t mean to sound so hoarse, and he didn’t mean to be here in the first place, but he thinks this has progressed through _want_ to _need_. The rain beats on the garage door, rattles like Ronan’s ribcage, echoes the thought that it would just be so nice if things were simple.

“Wouldn’t it be so nice,” Kavinsky says, “If you could let go of everything jamming up your skull?” He’s come alive since Ronan came in, though he’s still nowhere near manic. It’s a new game to Ronan, one that’s finally speaking through the noise. “Open up.”

Ronan obeys, muscles tense, mind finally, mercifully, quieting, and lets K place the pill on his tongue. It’s chalky on his tongue, a cloying kind of aftertaste that slowly resolves from ‘unpleasant’ to ‘unpleasantly sweet’. It kicks in fast, and it’s kind of K to have gotten him sitting first, as his body gets heavy and his mind gets light, conscious thinning as it’s pulled in-between.

Before his eyes are fully shut, he sees the blur of Kavinsky stepping in close, nothing but backlit bones and a skeleton smile. Sleep reaches up to swallow him, and its hand is warm on his chest, is trickling down and down and down.

 

Ronan wakes in an unfamiliar garage to the mechanical groan of the door levering up. Harsh daylight scrubs over his face, and he throws an arm over his eyes, groaning miserably as someone tries to park a grimy old ford in the clear space. Ruddy dawn or not, they still have their lights on. Ronan has never hated a person more.

He fumbles his way out of the party, stiff muscles doing their best with sore joints, and he steps on more than a few sleepers sprawled too far into the hallway. At some point the rain cleared up, and the party could expand back to the yard, leaving more cars and more mess and a lawn absolutely destroyed by a legion of overpriced sneakers.

The BMW is totally boxed in, the hood speckled with broken glass, a back wheel dripping with vomit. Ronan spends one contemptuous minute taking it in before starting the walk back to Monmouth. It’s not that far, and it won’t take as long as waiting for everyone else to wake up and get in shape to drive.

The walk gives him time to think, and now that he’s back in his right mind he’s not sure he _wants_ to think. He hadn’t meant to give Kavinsky that much power over him. He hadn’t wanted Kavinsky to know what he was into, because it was meant to stay a fantasy, because when it came down to it, he did not actually trust Kavinsky.

God, he feels good though.

Every inch of his skin feels hyperaware and tender, his head is clear, his body feels _loose_ and loved and _part_ of him, mending a disconnect he hadn’t even noticed he’d been feeling. He doesn’t know where he was touched, and when he gets home he is going to take a long hot shower, check himself over for bruises, for handprints, for the marks of what K did to him while he was absent. He wants to run his hands all over himself, learn the feel of his own body, imagine himself being explored, caressed, bitten, kissed, and he desperately, desperately wants to jerk off.

 

Of course he goes back to Kavinsky.

The first time lasts him two days before he’s out of his mind needing it again, that loss of control, the ache when he wakes, the missing piece that Kavinsky has and he doesn’t. He _needs_ it, when day blurs to night blurs to mud, and he seeks Kavinsky out endlessly, parties and alleys and backseats and a dozen places different to where he wakes up.

Kavinsky must have liked it as much as he did, because he’s more than indulgent. He gets Ronan alone, red pills when it’s all either of them want, something different when they’re at parties, slower acting, dropped into Ronan’s drink, and Ronan can _tell_ , not by taste but by how K stays home, eyes on his throat as he swallows. He gets an arm under Ronan’s when Ronan starts getting unsteady, tells people, “Can’t handle his drink, what a fucking embarrassment,” and pays absolutely no attention to anything other than helping Ronan half-stumble somewhere quiet and private enough he’ll consent to collapse.

And every time, as Ronan slips under, he feels K’s hands on his skin, those lips at his ear, all those warm whispers, “Maybe I’ll just leave you when I’m done, and you can wake up dripping,” and “I’m going to wring your pretty neck, give you a wreath of bruises to take home to daddy,” and “You want me to bring Skov and Swan in here, see what they’ll do to you?”

He wakes up _sore_ after that last, and he doesn’t know if Kavinsky made a special effort to wreck him, or if Kavinsky actually let his mates in to have a turn. He’ll never ask; all day the ache reminds him that he doesn’t know how he got it, and he feels _deliriously_ good inside his own skin.

He wakes up filthy, and he wakes up with scratches all up his thighs, with a small letter ‘K’ carved into his hip, with hickeys so high up his jaw he can’t hide them, with the impression of Kavinsky’s hands over every single inch of him. Back at home, all it takes is digging his own nails into the grooves that appeared in his skin, and he can get himself off like that, flat on his back, eyes closed, imagining himself trapped and still and Kavinsky taking his very sweet time to make sure he feels it in the morning.

 

The violet pill is offered when the two of them are alone in K’s basement. It’s raining somewhere up on the surface, and even though the sound is muffled, it still makes Ronan think of the storm that battered the garage door the very first time he submerged.

He plucks the pill from K’s fingers, and examines it, though it’s no different from the rest. “Is this one grape flavoured or something?” Ronan asks. He’s warm with anticipation, but lately he’s been calmer and clearer than he has all year, and he’s not about to start asking why K doesn’t have his hands on him already. Ronan doesn’t want to be that guy.

All Kavinsky says it, “Or something,” with the rasp in his throat that says he’s eager. He gestures; Ronan takes the pill. It is not grape flavoured, but the exact same chalk-dust of everything Kavinsky feels him. He swallows it without critique, and lays back on the dirty carpet, waiting for the lights to shut out and the shadow and weight of Kavinsky to settle in.

Slowly, from his fingertips up, he feels his body go still and soft, muscles putty, his skin moulding with the floor below. He couldn’t turn his head if he wanted to, the weight of it so immense and all his wires cut.

He does not, however, fall asleep. “Your pill’s faulty,” he slurs to K.

“Nah,” Kavinsky replies, his red eyes fever-bright. He’s crawled in closer, to look down on Ronan, and trails a hand up his hip, pushing his tee back to start baring skin. “New drug; more of a muscle relaxant.”

Ronan hears this, then understands, then goes hot and cold all over, shivering as Kavinsky splays a cool hand out over his stomach. He tries to raise a hand to grip K’s wrist; his fingers twitch, and nothing else. “Fuck,” he hisses from a corner of his mouth, the only co-ordination he can manage. “Fuck, K,” and he’s not sure if he’s trying to protest because Kavinsky’s hands are all over him, he can’t push them away, and he feels dizzy with want. Kavinsky fingers the edge of Ronan’s belt, and Ronan’s soft muscles can’t even twitch in resistance, and he feels the shudder echo through him, too hard and hopeful to say another word at all.

“Yeah,” K whispers, dropping a kiss on the side of Ronan’s neck while he works Ronan’s jeans down, “I thought you’d like this.”

Ronan’s muscles are still but his nerves are all lit up electric, thrumming like they’re making up for the rest of him, and K’s hand curling around his dick is a sensation he wasn’t prepared for. Muscle memory has him trying to buck into the touch, and that little purple pill keeps him exactly where he is, and Ronan groans with frustration, unable to move at all and take it on his terms. Kavinsky’s touching him just a little bit too light, and from the look on his face, it’s deliberate; Ronan’s body sparks, tortured, unable to bend like it needs to.

He gets off when K is merciful, grips him tight like he would if Ronan was needing something to grind against, and when Kavinsky feigns interest in something else, smoothing his hands over Ronan’s thighs like he’s checking the scars from last time, Ronan gets to lie still and ache and wait for attention to return.

“Something you want?” Kavinsky asks, mocking and sweet, the next time Ronan bites back a curse at not being touched. “Something you’d like me to do to you?”

“Fuck you,” Ronan says, not wanting to reward a question like that in the least. “Fuck me.”

Kavinsky takes his time preparing him, because he can, Ronan supposes, because Ronan can’t even bat a hand to stop him and isn’t about to use words to give his impatience away. He just tries to keep his breathing calm through every shift of K’s slick fingers, and tries to keep his shit together, and tries not to think about how much easier this was when he was asleep.

When K sinks into him, Ronan closes his eyes and _fuck_ , he can’t even get his knees together, he can’t do anything but take it exactly the way that Kavinsky wants to give it to him.

Kavinsky’s eyes are full and dark and everything from the curl of his lips to the hand he keeps on Ronan’s chest says that he is drinking this power in, and he likes the taste of it better than the dependence. He bucks his hips, not gentle, and Ronan’s live-wire nerves send lightning arcing up him to his brain, until he’s straining every paralysed muscle to stretch back, teeth gritted, unable to deflect the impact at all.

K fucks him until his nerves are jangling, like he’s working towards some personal best for how _sore_ he can leave Ronan after in the morning, and he’s not even going that _hard_ it’s just the pill making everything ricochet around a closed system and come agonisingly sweet into his skull. Ronan thinks his mouth might be open. He thinks he might be panting. He thinks he might be an absolute, complete embarrassment, and he couldn’t stop it if he wanted to, and the paralysis is the most freeing thing he has ever felt in his life. Nothing to do but enjoy it; he revels in it, giving himself up and over to Kavinsky’s hands, any seed of resistance uprooted. This is a goddamned gift.

Kavinsky’s breath is hot on his skin, tickling his collarbone, and when Ronan feels a hand on his chin, angling his head, he thinks K’s trying to bare his throat to bite it; instead Kavinsky tips his head down and kisses him on the lips, greedy and full, licking along the edges of Ronan’s teeth like he’s searching for that taste of chalk.

He’s pinning Ronan in from every angle, taking exactly whatever he wants, and Ronan’s hips twitch and his knees flex and he does not move a single fucking inch unless Kavinsky does it for him. The helplessness overtakes him. He’s still trapped in his skin as he cries out, and he feels like if his spine can’t bend the pressure’s just going to break him. Every nerve feels the trembling wave arc up and up and up through his body, and his cry is a gasp, is a gulp of air, is the most pulled apart he’s ever felt.

His lungs are a mile away from his mouth, and he breathes, shaky, body still vibrating, head coming back down, aware of heat and how sweat-slick he’s become, Kavinsky pulling out, and the absolute satisfaction on Kavinsky’s face. He leans in to kiss Ronan again, and is met with bare teeth; he pecks the tip of his nose instead, and Ronan cannot move to stop him.

It takes a while for feeling to come back to his body. Kavinsky puts a movie up on his big screen, then lies on the floor with Ronan, pressing his thumbs into old bruises and new ones, grazing his teeth over Ronan’s throat just to make him shiver, fingering him just to make him twitch. Ronan leaves as soon as he can get his legs under him, straight out into the rain, letting it sluice right off his back.

Absolutely no one can ever know what K just did to him and exactly how much he liked it.

God, he feels so fucking _good_.

**Author's Note:**

> yeah I'm still posting this stuff under my regular name apparently. come screech on [tumblr](http://kiiouex.tumblr.com/)


End file.
